Sorrow In Quiet Proximity
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: Matt coming to see her in the wee hours of the night isn't so unusual for Claire. But this time he isn't in need of stitches, and she can't quite figure out what is wrong and why he isn't saying anything.


**Title:** Sorrow In Quiet Proximity  
 **Author:** TeeJay  
 **Genre:** Gen  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Matt, Claire  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Warning:** This is set some time after the season 1 finale, but doesn't contain any specific spoilers for season 1  
 **Summary:** Matt coming to see her in the wee hours of the night isn't so unusual for Claire. But this time he isn't in need of stitches, and she can't quite figure out what is wrong and why he isn't saying anything. Written for a prompt from the Daredevil kinkmeme.  
 **Author's Note:** Firstly, apologies that this hasn't been beta'ed. Secondly, I'm happy to give something back to all the wonderful writers over on Dreamwidth. Written for this prompt from the Daredevil kinkmeme:  
 _Claire is woken up in the night by Matt in the middle of her apartment, soaking wet but seemingly none the worse for wear. Which is annoying because she's tired and he can't just break in when he feels like it when she's already told him she can't be in a relationship with him. Then she notices the tears.  
He won't respond to her, he won't tell her what happened and she realises it doesn't matter. He doesn't need to tell her what's wrong. He's crying in the middle of her lounge and he needs her to just be there.  
Bonus for Claire putting Matt to bed and holding him as he falls asleep. I don't mind where you go with this, or what events brought Matt to Claire, I'm just all about teh comfort._  
 **Disclaimer:** None of this is mine except for my vivid imagination. Copyright to characters and situations belongs to Drew Goddard, Marvel Entertainment, Netflix, and whoever else might wish to claim ownership. I'm just borrowing for a little escapism and a whole lot of fun.

* * *

It's the noise that wakes her. Claire holds her breath, listens. Shit, there's someone here. Her heart skips a beat. They've had two B&Es in this very building in the past month alone.

Her mind goes racing through her options, and bizarrely, even though she's very much anti-firearms (she sees the damage they cause on an almost daily basis), she suddenly wishes she had something here to defend herself with.

Her covers shift as she sneaks out of bed as noiselessly as she can. She snatches her smartphone from the nightstand, because at the very least she wants to be able to dial 911 if need be.

There's more shuffling noises, and she peers round the doorframe into the living room. A dark figure, something gleaming with a dull, almost metallic shimmer. She recognizes it right away, and she releases the breath she's been holding. Matt. Well, no, Daredevil, she reminds herself.

"Matt."

He doesn't move, and she closes the gap between them, already scanning for signs of bleeding or injury. It's her go-to reaction, it's become the defining point of their meetings, and there's something inside of her that loathes that part.

What's strange, she notices is that he's soaking wet. A few drops of water drip from the mask he's holding in his hand onto her floorboards. Her brows knit together for a brief moment. This is new. No blood that she can detect, so the new suit's at least good for something.

"Matt," she tries again. "What happened? Are you injured?"

He just shakes his head, and this uncanny silence from him is unusual. She just stands there, does the once-over, but seemingly, he's none the worse for wear. Which is annoying, because it's, what? 3 am?

Yesterday's late shift was crazy, taxing and exhausting, and she needs to be up by 6:30 tomorrow. She's tired, and if he doesn't need her medical attention, why is he here? He can't just break in when he feels like it. She's already told him she can't be in a relationship with him, and this isn't helping.

"What are you doing here if you're not injured? It's the middle of the night."

His eyes are wide, as unseeing as ever, flickering ever so slightly. His breath is ragged, shaky. In the half light, it's hard to catch the details, but there's just something… He's crying, she realizes. Tears roll down his cheeks, and a sudden lump materializes in her stomach.

"Matt," she whispers. "What's wrong? Please talk to me."

She takes one of his wrists, and it's wet and cold. The physical contact shakes something loose in him, because he's starting to waver. Her other hand comes up to steady him, and he looks as if his legs will not support him any longer. His face twists into a silent kind of agony, his eyes gleaming with fresh tears. A sob escapes his mouth, distressing and filled with a world of sorrow.

"Hey," she shushes, her hand finding his back. It's all she can do to pull him against her in the most tender embrace. It doesn't matter that she starts to feel the cold wetness from his suit seep through the fabric of her own shirt.

She just holds him, and she wishes she knew what brought this on, but then she figures maybe that's not important. Maybe he just needs her to be here. And she will, with all she has to give.

She doesn't know how long they stand like this. Maybe it's two minutes. Maybe ten. Time has lost meaning for as long as he is silently shaking against her collarbone, her hand rubbing soft circles across his back.

She refrains from the cliché phrases, because, hell, she doesn't know if it anything's going to be okay. She doesn't even know _what's_ going to be okay, or not okay for that matter. She shouldn't be particularly surprised by this. Matt's secrets are deeply ingrained, and he's still learning how to share them with the people that matter.

Eventually, he quiets, and she gently pushes him away from her. "Come on, let's get you out of these wet clothes."

He doesn't protest, his movements more automatic than anything. She still has a pair of pajama pants and t-shirt from an ex-boyfriend that he should fit into.

While he changes, she gets a towel from the bathroom. He's sitting on the couch when she comes back and a few more silent tears slide from the corners of his eyes when she towels off his hair. Words seem meaningless in the space of this moment, and maybe they're both grateful that they can do this in a mutual, quiet proximity.

She lets her fingers brush softly across his temple, smoothing away a damp strand of hair. He breathes in and closes his eyes. She can feel him leaning ever so slightly into her touch and she lets her hand linger softly against his cheek. More than anything, she wishes she could take on some of this pain that seems to smother him from the inside.

When she's done with his hair, she softly squeezes his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

There's no resistance when she pulls him up by one hand and guides him into her bedroom. Her covers are still rumpled and she makes room for him to lie down. There are no protests or words, and this still worries her.

She's ready to take the couch, even though she knows it's going to do jack shit in terms of getting any more quality sleep. She takes a last look at him and plants a soft kiss on his forehead.

The one thing she didn't expect was his hand catching her wrist as she's about to leave, and there's an almost imperceptible pull in his direction. It says, "Don't leave," loud and clear, and he doesn't need words for that.

There is no question that she's going to acquiesce to his silent plea, and she crawls into bed with him, careful to keep her distance. She's never pegged him for the touchy-feely type, and he's always been so careful to respect their boundaries.

He shifts onto his side away from her, and in the dim light shining through the window, all she can see is the back of his head and the covers he's wrapped in. She wants to touch him to tell him she's there for whatever he needs, but something tells her maybe he doesn't want her to. She stops her hand in mid-motion, but then he stirs.

"Claire?"

It's the first thing he's said since he's stumbled into her apartment tonight. His voice is rough and hoarse, like he's been screaming too long, too loud.

"I'm here," she tells him.

He turns slightly in her direction and a hand comes up to seek out hers. She knows what that means and scoots closer, wraps her arm around his waist to draw him near. Of all the scenarios she's ever had in mind when it came to her and Matt ending up in bed together, this one had never once made the list.

She lets her head settle against the hollow of his neck and places her hand flat against his waist. There's just the tiniest reaction from him as she feels him relax just a little bit. It's a small victory.

His voice rumbles when he speaks again. "Claire, I…"

"Don't," she says quietly. "It doesn't matter, not right now. Just sleep."

He doesn't respond, and maybe that's all right. She doesn't move for a long time, and eventually his breathing evens out, his muscles relaxing into the comforting grasp of sleep.

The last thoughts she remembers before drifting off is that tomorrow, she needs to call Foggy, and that she's always going to be there for Matt when he needs her, no matter what. Even beyond the patching up.

* * *

THE END.


End file.
